


Dog Dean Coda

by DreamingStarkly



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Coda, Episode: s09e05 Dog Dean Afternoon, M/M, because Chuck knows these guys need them, therapy dogs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2018-04-17 05:38:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4654407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamingStarkly/pseuds/DreamingStarkly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four codas post-"Dog Dean Afternoon" because dogs. And everyone should have them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dog Dean Coda

* * *

 

**1.**

“I like dogs.”

“No, you really don’t.”

It shouldn’t have made him think as much as it did. Because while it wasn’t really a debilitating phobia, it was a kinda ridiculous fear to carry around as a hunter.  And hell, if Sam had his way he was gonna be an uncle to like twenty flea machines in the future.

So he started small.  _Air Bud, All Dogs Go to Heaven_. He stayed the fuck away from  _Cujo_. _Homeward Bound_  was probably the tipping point where he started to feel kin to the whole loyalty thing. Maybe dogs weren’t so bad if they inspired tear-jerkers like that. Not like any tears were jerked. Nope.

Then he worked his way up to  _Old Yeller_ , and yeah the rabid part made him walk out of his room to breathe for a bit, but he managed to calm himself and finish it. It was progress, in a way. And even after all that, he felt a little bad for the dog.

One of the witnesses for a ghost hunt had a Doberman. She wasn’t totally impressed with his whole spooked deer act, and walked right up to him to sniff his hand. And then she plopped down on his shoes when he sat down on her owner’s couch. Dean didn’t move an inch–part of him was ready to keel over with a stroke or something–but the dog didn’t move either.

She even licked his trousers just before he left.

It was weird, but it was a little more reassuring than he thought it would be. So when the time came to reach into a cage and press the silver against the paw of a huge German Shepherd, he forced himself to trust the fact that if the Colonel really wanted a bite out of him he would have his ears back. Body language was a thing with dogs, right?  

Music tastes aside, the whole mindmeld thing didn’t go as badly as he thought it would either. Dogs, slobbery, excitable messes that they were, had a pretty decent grasp of the world. They loved their families with unshakable conviction, they enjoyed the little things like belly rubs and sex and good food, they wanted everyone around them to be happy and safe. It was…enlightening, to say the least.

Dean was a little more morose than he let on that he had to let the Colonel go. He was a simple animal with simple needs, and he didn’t say anything when Dean woke from a demon-fueled nap. He just let the hunter pass a hand over his head until his heart rate slowed.

* * *

 

**2.**

The dog symptoms didn’t completely disappear with the voices.

It’s not exactly that Dean was chasing after squirrels or anything, but something was different. He’d always had a keen sense of awareness and maybe it was just him getting more paranoid in his old age. That said, it was starting to creep Sam out that Dean knew exactly when someone was going to walk into a room. Okay, maybe it was kinda helpful on hunts but there was something sixth-sensey about your brother (who probably had his eardrums mangled after years of blaring AC/DC) making a cup of coffee for Kevin before Sam even heard the kid’s door open in the morning.

Dean wasn’t completely clueless about it, either. He would pace in front of the door before they went out for a hunt. Sometimes, Sam caught him tracking the balled up paper flying through the air to the trash can. His hands would twitch in restraint. And once, just once, Kevin mentioned Cas in the middle of a conversation and a heartbreakingly inhuman whine escaped his brother’s throat. Dean flinched in embarrassment and fled the room with a muttered half-assed excuse about indigestion.

But they got used to it. Dean was a little less jumpy around dogs in general, which was a relief. And if Dean perked up at the prospect of bacon even more than usual (which usually meant an inhuman amount of excitement) the rest of the bunker seemed to take it in stride.

* * *

 

**3.**

The brothers had a lot of things to make up for to each other, but ties this strong never could be cut completely. Hell, it had been over a year since their last huge fuck-up, since the last (and Dean really wanted it to be the last) real betrayal of trust. The angels were are back in heaven–at least the ones that weren’t dicks. The dicks were mostly decimated. Which was great; they still had your run-of-the-mill evil to eradicate, but everyone was still alive. Things were good. Cas was in the bunker and had stayed. For the most part. Every once in a while the guy would walk out the door in the middle of the night and take a bus to Reno or something. At least he always kept his cell on him.

That said, even though his brother hadn’t disowned him or anything, Dean decided the whole Ezekiel thing warranted a belated apology puppy.

“Oh my God. Dean. Oh my  _God_.” Sam’s face was worth every fucking Apocalypse they’d come up against. The golden-furred Labrador squirmed in Sam’s arms, desperate to lick every inch he could reach.  

“Yeah, yeah, Merry Christmas. Stop squealing and name the fuzzball so I can feel manly again,” Dean teased.

“Sawyer,” Sam decided quietly, his smile faded to a contented grin. After a moment, though, faltered slightly. He looked up from the puppy’s playful nipping at his fingers. “Dean…”

“Shut up. As long as you’re the one who cleans up his pee in the kitchen, we’re good.” Dean reached out and scratched under Sawyer’s chin. “He’s family now.”

Okay, maybe potty training a puppy in the middle of a magic-filled bunker wasn’t the best idea. But you’re not a real Winchester until you nearly cause the end of the world. At least that’s what Sam said after they finally destroyed the cursed Celtic talisman that young Sawyer thought was a chewtoy. Luckily teething dogs were immune to the curse, and the god that was released only had time to threaten the extinction of the human race for about five minutes before Castiel staked it with pine.

Sam cradled the still-growling Lab to his chest. “I think they sell puppy fences at Wal-Mart.”

* * *

 

**4.**

Another two months passed and Cas left.

Dean was waiting for it like an anvil hanging over his head, to be honest. His friend would leave for a weekend or so, come back for a couple months, and then disappear again to travel the continental United States for a week. Rinse and repeat. Dean tried to offer to go along with him on these roadtrips, but Castiel always turned him down. He didn’t push the issue, because he already knew that Cas was still trying to figure himself out. He’d talk about odd jobs he found. Not hunts, actual jobs. Building a house. Volunteering at a homeless shelter. Cleaning up after a hurricane hit the Gulf.

As much as Dean thought Cas was still an ace hunter, he could see that Cas’s heart wasn’t in it. He knew it was only a matter of time until he decided that he needed to figure out where his heart actually was.

It fucking hurt, to have nothing but a note saying that Cas didn’t know when he was going to be back. That he was going to start to find his own roots, whatever the hell that was supposed to mean. But whatever. The man deserved to walk away, especially after what he did to save the rest of the angels and send them home while he was left behind. He deserved to know what a normal life felt like. To do whatever the fuck he wanted. So Dean didn’t say anything. He kept an eye on Krissy’s gang and took Sawyer out to play fetch and made sure everyone was fed and ganked some demons.

Eight months passed. Dean would have tracked the sonuvabitch down if he didn’t text exactly once every two weeks, letting them (Dean) know he was alive and well. He said nothing about what exactly he was doing in Maryland (okay maybe Dean tracked his phone every other week when he got the chance) but it was enough to keep him away from the bunker. Dean broke down on Christmas Eve 2015, slightly tipsy on eggnog, and essentially begged Cas to “come home for Christmas” via voicemail. He didn’t get a response until two weeks later.

_C: I’m sorry, Dean. I’ve been busy. I will let you know if I am heading to Kansas in the future._

Dean didn’t respond to the bimonthly texts for three months, but he was pretty sure Sam had Cas’s number because the guy didn’t seem too concerned about the one-way texting spree. Dean knew it was a petty tactic, but with the rest of the crap sitting on his shoulders these days he didn’t have the energy to wrestle with his feelings about abandonment in general.

It was after a particularly rough hunt that Dean decided to text his friend back. He was tired and bloody and aching and he was pretty sure Sam wrapped his sprained ankle a little too loosely, but he was alive. He hesitated, but decided fuck it all and typed _i miss you_  into his phone and hit send.

Two days later Castiel was at the front door with a lanky, dark German Shepherd at his side.

“Cas,” Dean gaped. His friend took note of the crutch and frowned. After Dean shook of the feeling of immense, breathtaking relief, questions burst forth. “Hunt, tree root. What are you doing here, man? Where’ve you been? Why do you have a dog?”

Castiel blinked and looked down at the German Shepherd, who had been calmly standing at his side the whole time.

“This is Lola. I’ve been training her.”

“Training her?” Dean repeated.

“Yes. Shall we go inside? You probably shouldn’t be standing,” Cas replied.

“Yeah. Um, wait. Sawyer…” Dean turned halfway inside to make sure Sawyer wasn’t about to barrel around the corner, go all enthusiastically Lab, and freak out the Shepherd.

“Lola is good with other dogs. And as I recall, Sawyer loves playmates.”

Dean didn’t have anything to object, and she seemed well behaved enough. He stood aside and let Cas and the dog through. They climbed down (Dean a little more slowly with his ankle) and made their way to the table. Cas made a motion to Lola and she laid down.

“Dog trainer, huh?” Dean commented, trying to force levity into his tone. Completely ignoring the fact that his heart felt like it was lodged in his throat. “Does she know how to roll over?”

“Yes, among other things. The hospital primarily wanted me to work on her social skills.”

There was a brief silence.

“Hospital?”

“Walter Reed, in Maryland. It caters to injured soldiers and United States military personnel. I worked in the PT ward with the Red Cross program.”

That sounded like something Cas would do.

“Yeah, I’ve heard of it. So, what? You’re a therapy dog trainer?”

“Was.”

Dean furrowed his brow. “Was?”

“I have a way with animals, it seems. And I can understand the soldiers. Sometimes they just need someone to talk to. And sometimes they just need Lola.” Cas trailed off, looking at the dog at his feet.

“But?” Dean encouraged.

“There are other therapy dogs, Dean. And I wasn’t just training Lola for the soldiers at Walter Reed. She’s yours, Dean. If you want her.”

Dean’s eyes widened and then dropped down to Lola, who gazed back at him evenly. She had the presence of a fucking bodhisattva.  

“Cas. I’m not just about to take a goddamn  _therapy dog_ away from guys who got blasted in Afghanistan.”

“And you have not been through war? Have not we all?“ Castiel said, some of his old gravitas making Dean bite his tongue until he finished. "It wasn’t chance that brought me to Lola. I was volunteering at a veterinary clinic. Her former trainer brought her in a few times, said she failed the first two obedience tests. After I expressed interest in the program, he asked me to continue socializing her until I could get back to…to Kansas. So I adopted her, and helped some people in the meantime.”

Dean chewed on the inside of his cheek and pushed away his instinct to push Cas’s insane ideas out the window.

“Why?”

“Why train her for you?” Cas clarified. Dean raised a brow expectantly. “Because you never ask for help, but I think you want to. And I wanted to make things better for once. Between. Between us, Dean.”

Well. Same song, different verse.

“Cas…you,” Dean swallowed. “The thing you can do to make things better is to stick around. Unless…do you have some kittens to save up in Alaska?”

Castiel stared at him. “No, I don’t. And I can’t promise I won’t in the future, but I feel as though I understand now where my roots lie. Where my heart lies.”

After a handful of long moments where Dean fought to grab Cas by the shoulders and kiss him, he spoke in a shaky voice. “Can I pet her?”

Cas smiled for the first time since he arrived. “Go ahead. She doesn’t have her vest on, so she’s not as obedient as she usually–”

“Come,” Dean directed. Lola immediately stood and trotted over. _Failed obedience my ass_ , Dean thought. And then something strange happened. Lola sat down and rested her head on his thigh. Her big brown eyes gazed up at him and his heart seized.

“Hey girl,” he muttered, running his hand carefully through her thick fur. “Hey Lola.” She blinked at him and thumped her tail.  

“She likes you.”

“Yeah, I bet you say that to all the boys,” Dean huffed, trying to maintain a shred of dignity as his soul was being stolen by a big freakin’ mutt and her sweet face.

“No, I don’t.”

Dean looked up at Cas, whose soft smile hadn’t yet left his face. His heart seized again, but in a different way.

“I missed you too, Dean.”

_**FIN** _

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, so this episode aired a while back and I posted this on Tumblr a while back. And it's not the best episode (or fic) but DOGS. Posting for posterity.


End file.
